


Breathe

by CityofFallenAngels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Mycroft, Big Brother Mycroft, Brotherly Love, Friendship, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Whump, Protective Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CityofFallenAngels/pseuds/CityofFallenAngels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the times he wanted Mycroft to listen, he couldn't have wished for it more now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone. This is my first ever Sherlock story I'm publishing online and the second I'm posting on this site, so I'm really nervous but excited at the same time. I've written a bunch of them but never posted them before. I've always had a soft spot for Mycroft-whump, especially stories where Sherlock is allowed to be the protective brother. After all, the strong British Government can't always be invincible, can he? I feel like there are not enough stories like that, so I decided to write one. Also, this is unbeta-ed, so if you see any mistakes feel free to let me know. Constructive criticism is always welcomed. Enjoy :)

It was an urgent case that arrived in 221B one noon, delivered by none other than the British Government himself. A seven-year old son of a royal family member had been kidnapped. If they weren’t found within eight hours with two million dollars, the child would die.

John was taking all of this fairly well enough until Mycroft added he was joining them.

“You’re coming?” John blurted out, unable to contain his surprise. It was a well-known fact the government official detested legwork. He had never physically involved himself in any cases he issued before.

“Trust me, John, I wouldn’t be caught dead doing this if said person involved wasn’t so important to my higher-ups,” Mycroft lamented dryly. “Unfortunately this kidnapping is one of an extremely…sensitive matter and we have to keep it as discreet as possible.” He emphasised ‘discreet’ with a raise of his brows. “I do wish the Secret Service could be more trustworthy, or at least half as capable." 

“If you trained them yourself they might turn out better," the doctor joked. He quickly clamped his mouth shut at Mycroft's face. "Ahem."

“Perhaps it’s a favour to you. They’re helping you to burn off the calories you have from your desserts.” Sherlock said smoothly. 

"Or perhaps I'm giving you a chance to do something worthwhile in your life than whiling away in the flat."

“Children,” John cut in before they got any worse. Two fully grown amazing men and a powerful figure of the world acting like toddlers. The wonders. 

Mycroft twirled his favourite umbrella. "A member of the Royal family getting kidnapped is no small matter. We were notified this only one hour ago, and with the short time they have given us, I have enlisted my dear brother’s help.”

Sherlock scowled at the term. “Who says I’ll help? Royal or not it’s none of my business.”

“You will, Sherlock. Otherwise I will tell Mummy it was you who ruined Mrs Richard’s dress last Christmas’s party.”

The detective shot him a withering glare.

“Seems like this case will be quite dangerous,” John said, ignoring their bickering. “Are you sure you, umm…” he wondered how to put it non-awkwardly. “…don’t want to call one of your men…?”

To this Mycroft gave John an ambiguous smile, and Sherlock snorted before jumping off the couch. John did not understand either reaction and shrugged it off as the strangeness of Holmeses.

The detective called in DI Lestrade in as well, more to annoy Mycroft because of his emphasis on ‘discreet’. Other than an exasperated glare Mycroft shot his brother (which Sherlock relished immensely), he didn’t say anything else. Lestrade was trusted enough in Mycroft’s books, and it was good to have an extra hand.  

* * *

They found the location just under the 8-hour mark after a series of trackings. It was a far-off pier seldom frequented, and the water beyond shone a luminous, ominous black. In the dead of the night the freezing air bit at John’s thin jacket and he shivered. Gods it was cold. The kidnappers were there, clothed in black and masked. John spotted the child gagged and bound to a pier pillar behind them, frightened tears streaming down wind-bitten flushed cheeks.

Sherlock handed the briefcase of money (fake, of course) over to who appeared to be the leader helming the front. The second the leader had his fingers clamped around the briefcase handle, John found himself being pounced on by three men from different directions. He barely had time to block a flying fist before he realised the others were being attacked as well, from the very group they had been negotiating with. All hell broke loose. He dodged the bodies, making a beeline for the hostage behind them.

In the corner of his eye he saw a burly thug charge towards Mycroft. He opened his mouth to give a cry of warning. But it turned out there was no need. Mycroft whipped out his black umbrella like a sword and smashed the end of it across the thug’s face in a clean swoop. John stared agog. 

His surprise was interrupted when a muscular golem intercepted him before he could reach the child. He was at least a head taller than him, but John was a military man and his years of training ensured he was capable of defending himself as he deflected the blows.

 _Wasn’t this what they were for?_  He thought. Even with their varied occupations, they shared the same necessity to defend themselves in their line of work. One wrong move could result in a loss of life, be it your own or your comrades', he had learnt as a soldier.

From the corner of his eye he caught glimpses of DI Lestrade and Sherlock fighting a throng of assailants near the pier edge, Mycroft at a distance from them. He noticed their combat styles almost immediately. Sherlock’s movements were quick and calculated, jabbing at specific spots that incapacitated them while Lestrade fought with a brutal, rugged proficiency. Mycroft he couldn’t tear his eyes away from. The man knocked out each oncoming attacker as though they were flies hovering around his face. It was easy to assume that with Mycroft’s abhorrence for legwork and sedentary life he wouldn’t know how to lift a finger in defence and relied on concealed bodyguards and surveillance. But it was the complete opposite. There was nothing gentle about his movements. They were sharp, fluid and deadly, something that spoke of years of training and experience. _An assassin's hands,_ John suddenly thought. It fueled his mystery of the older Holmes. The government official slipped under one assailant’s legs, swung out the other side and clipped the brute’s head with the umbrella end. Then he whipped off his red necktie and hooked it around the beefy neck, choking him out with a merciless efficiency that sent a shiver down John’s spine.

Yet even with their blows, it was clear they were severely outnumbered. There had to be at least fifteen of them against their four. It was going to be a tough fight. 

* * *

He should have seen it coming. 

The moment he saw the kidnappers, alarm bells started ringing in Sherlock’s head.

The clues were there—the excessive number of people for a trade, their distinct accent when they spoke, the tattoo patterns on their bodies…they weren’t just any ordinary thugs; they were expertly-trained Russian assassins. 

This wasn’t just a kidnapping, no, it was a _trap_. They knew Mycroft Holmes. They knew the kidnapping of a royal son would lure out the British Government. And with the short time and cat-and-mouse game they set, they betted Sherlock would be called out. And they were right. They were targeting both Mycroft and him, whatever the reason was.

Sherlock cursed his oversight. One glance at Mycroft’s face before he handed the briefcase over and he knew his brother had deduced everything as well, perhaps even more. But there was naught they could do but go on. An important son’s life was at stake.

Exhaustion crept in his mind. It was three in the morning, the accosters an endless stream. The numerous bruises and swells on his body protested with each movement. Stars flooded his vision when a fist collided with his face. He rebounded with a growl, swinging back.

Mycroft seemed to be faring the best; something he wasn’t surprised with. Aside from a tousled suit he didn’t appear to be injured. More men lay on a pile at his feet than the rest.  

With his one attacker down, Sherlock found himself tackled by two more, and he staggered at the onslaught. He didn’t notice the glint of silver at a distance, not even as it aimed at him.

“SHERLOCK!”

His head jerked up at the shout, but it was too late. Something flew past and shoved him to the ground the same time a gunshot tore through the air.

Sherlock's expression of shock melted into horror.

Mycroft.

Blood dripped down the government official's body. He stumbled back towards the pier edge, and fell into the murky waters below.

“Mycroft!”

Sherlock barely registered his own scream as the body crashed into the murky waters below. He scrambled to his feet, preparing to leap into the water when he was seized by brawny arms from behind.

“ _FUCK OFF_!” he roared and slammed his fist across the bastard’s face savagely. He heard bone crack along with a soprano-pitched cry.  Lestrade jumped the gun-wielding leader from behind, disarming him and knocking him out.

“Don’t let him escape!” One hollered.

John intercepted a brute charging towards Sherlock.

“Go, Sherlock! Get Mycroft! We’ll handle this!” he panted as he held back the assailant. 

Sherlock didn’t think twice. He leapt over the pier edge and plunged into the shining obsidian waters below.

The shock of iciness nearly knocked him out. Water roared over his ears _._ He cast his eyes wildly around the dark chasm, trying to spot a hand, a leg, anything. He swam deeper in, muscles locking at the freezing temperature. _It was so cold_. If Mycroft had fallen in unconscious, with that gunshot wound…he didn’t finish the thought.

He forced his eyes open against the burning saltwater. There seemed to be miles and miles of endless inky darkness everywhere, when he caught a flash of white. Without thinking Sherlock propelled himself towards it. As he drew nearer he made out the outline of a floating body. With his remaining strength he grabbed it and kicked his legs ferociously, pushing the both of them up. He broke through the surface of the frigid night air gasping. Mycroft lay unconscious in his arms, ice-cold and very still.

He waded to the pier landing. It was then he noticed the warmth seeping into his chest from the prone body he carried and the unmistakable coppery scent. Shit.

John and Lestrade had finished off the last of the assassins and freed the hostage when Sherlock emerged, bearing the dripping, limp form of his brother. Red streaked a dangling white hand, trickling down to join the puddle of water below. Lestrade immediately dialled for an ambulance as John raced over. The detective laid his brother flat on the ground with a surprising tenderness. When he pulled his hand away, it was slick with blood. He got to work quickly, stripping off the blood-drenched suit and undershirt as John located the bullet wound. It was at the left shoulder, and a disturbing amount of blood was pouring out. John whipped off his scarf to staunch the wound as Sherlock felt for a breath over Mycroft’s nose.

“He’s not breathing,” Sherlock hurriedly pressed two fingers against the outstretched column of pale flesh. His heart constricted painfully as he waited.

There was no pulse. 

He placed one palm atop the other on his brother’s chest, and began compressions hard and fast.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5…_

He kept his elbows straight as he pumped onto the motionless body. At the 30th pulse he tilted Mycroft’s head back gently and opened his mouth. Pinching his nose shut, he covered the ice-cold, wet lips with his own and blew twice into it.  He watched the chest rise and fall without any further movement.

He repeated the procedure again. 30 pushes, 2 breaths. He counted the numbers like a mantra, focusing on each push and number.

_…26, 27, 28, 29, 30._

Pinch nose shut and 2 breaths.  He repeated the cycle again. It was nothing like the movies, nothing easy or magical. CPR was challenging and violent. As if to prove his point he heard the audible sound of ribs cracking under his administration. Bile rose in his throat and he almost vomited at the fact that he was breaking his own brother's ribs under his bare hands. He forced himself to continue, knowing this was the only thing forcing the heart to pump.

Guilt ate at him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Mycroft was the experienced one. But he had overlooked the signs, became careless, and Mycroft had taken the bullet for him. Always, it was always Mycroft who protected him since he was a child from his incompetencies. Even now. Once when he was young, Sherlock had climbed a tree because he wanted to examine the species of an insect. Mycroft was below, hollering at him to get down. Unfortunately said insect had crawled to the highest point of the tree, and Sherlock had determinedly followed, ignoring Mycroft's angry shouts of protests from the ground below. Of course the inevitable happened, as one would suspect. He slipped and fell, from a tree almost 2.5 meters high, and crashed right onto a pillow below. Only it wasn't a pillow, but Mycroft's body. Mycroft's arm broke in two places from the impact, and Sherlock never climbed a tree without feeling guilt after that again. Till this day, Mycroft bore the scars on his arm. He focused back on the present. It was happening again. 

"Breathe," he ordered ferociously. "You can’t just stop. This is completely wrong. I calculated the probability. You’re supposed to die with a 87.% chance from obesity, a 53.4% chance from diabetes, followed by suffocation from stuffing your face with too much cake when you're old and useless or dying in the line of your job. Not…”

 _…not by drowning on a sidewalk with a gunshot wound because you protected me._   

Mycroft remained motionless.

“Breathe, damn you!” Sherlock cursed angrily. John wanted to take over but he was staunching the wound and his own suspected broken ribs prevented him from doing so. “Where is the ambulance?!”

“They’re coming in eight!” Lestrade shouted from his place with the traumatised child.

No. No. Too late. He was alone.

He turned his attention back on his brother.

“Come on Mycroft, of all times don’t be a stubborn mule now. You never liked listening to me…” he was mumbling incoherently to an unconscious man but he didn’t care.

He finished the set of compressions and puffed twice into the mouth again. “ _Breathe!_ ”

So often when they were young, a pout or demand was all Sherlock needed to get his older brother to give in. But this time, Mycroft didn’t give in. No amount of pouts or whines would make him listen anymore.   

They were losing time. Each push Sherlock felt the shifting and cracking of bone under his palms that made him want to tear his own hands out. Scream.

_How long had passed?_

Panic mounted in his heart. Always he regarded his brother as infallible, the indestructible force. He was the presence that would be there even if the sun fell or the moon vanished. Yet now he didn’t respond. Brain damage occurred after the 4-minute mark of oxygen deprivation, and within six minutes…he was suddenly hit with the realisation that Mycroft could actually die. He could, no— _he was already dead_. He looked at his brother’s face at the sudden realisation. The lips had turned blue. Wet clumped eyelashes rested stilly against ashen cheeks. His chest did not rise. He was working against a dead body. 

Something snapped deep within Sherlock’s soul. 

“Please, My,” Sherlock whispered, voice scared, child-like. He was seven again, looking at his elder brother's body which wasn't supposed to be this wrong colour of white and blue. Lifeless.

He rarely begged his brother since they were young, for Mycroft always gave in. For he knew Mycroft would always be there no matter how far they drifted apart. They would finish the case and return to their roles of Mycroft being the controlling older brother and Sherlock the troubling one. He would drop by 221B next week with another case. Sherlock would reject it and play an awful tune on the violin to chase him away. This was their _play,_ their oddroles which they excelled in.  But the body before him was dead. It wasn't an exasperated or stern face, it was ice-cold and white and blue. The colour of a corpse. 

 _"_ Please,” Something edged his voice, desperation or fear. The body under his palms seemed to grow colder as each second passed, despite his frantic attempts to instill life back. “ _Please_ …”

 _Don't leave_. 

Something obscured his vision, blurry and hot. He didn't hear how his voice broke into something that sounded like a sob. With his vision watery he slowed the pushes and laid a hand gingerly on an ashen cheek. 

“Sherlock...” John reached out for Sherlock’s arm. His voice was hesitant, stricken.

“No,” Sherlock jerked away ruthlessly. He knew what he was going to say. “ _No_.”

He resumed the compressions determinedly. Suddenly the body under his palms jerked and Mycroft choked, a large amount of water spewing out of his lips.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock didn't have time to feel relieved before the elder brother started coughing and vomiting out copious amounts of water. He turned his brother to the side as he inhaled huge amounts of air in painful rasps. After a few moments dazed blue eyes flickered open and met his.

“Sh’rlock?” he mumbled.

“Sh, the ambulance is coming,” Sherlock said. He let go of one arm and rubbed his eyes scrupulously.

The wail of sirens filled the air soon after. The ambulance arrived with a black car in tow. Anthea emerged from it, rushing over to them, heels clacking on the pavement. It was the closest to panic Sherlock had ever seen on her face. The boy was taken away into the black car and paramedics tended to his brother.

“He has a gunshot wound to his shoulder, fell underwater and stopped breathing. CPR was done on him for approximately three and a half minutes.” John informed.

“And has possible broken ribs,” Sherlock added numbly. The paramedics whisked him away. John reached over and pressed Sherlock’s arm comfortingly.

* * *

They were taken to a hospital and two hours in surgery later Mycroft was transferred to an extremely private first-class ward. John had indeed suffered one broken rib and an assortment of minor injuries as souvenirs, and Lestrade multiple lacerations and a split lip. Sherlock escaped with numerous scrapes and bruises, which were all treated. Anthea stayed with them, eyes on her Blackberry until the doctor emerged from the ward with his prognosis.

“We’ve removed the bullet as well as the excess water in his lungs. No secondary drowning. The bullet shot through his shoulder deeply, which is why he suffered massive blood loss. If you hadn’t staunched the blood flow he might have died.” He acknowledged John’s effort with an inclination of his head. “Four of his ribs are cracked and he has slight hypothermia. But we have treated him and he is stable and sedated now. You may see him.”

Anthea went in first. After accessing her boss’s condition, she left typing rapidly on her Blackberry.

Sherlock turned to his other two partners-in-crime, or justice. “You can leave, you know. Go home and rest.” It had been a long night.

“Nah, I think I’ll stay.” Lestrade said.

“Let’s go in.” John pushed open the door.

They entered the private ward quietly. The figure in the bed looked small, swathed in a thick blanket and bandages. It was an unfamiliar sight. Sherlock would never get used to seeing Mycroft like this. Unconscious, his face did not have the usual carefully constructed cold mask of the British Government. It looked vulnurable, open, young. He took in his condition quickly. Colour was back on his skin, though the paleness remained. The gunshot wound and his chest was wrapped in clean bandages, and an oxygen mask aided his breathing. They collapsed into chairs, all too tired to make conversation, and began the quiet wait.

* * *

Mycroft awoke two hours later. Sherlock, who had been dozing off roused when a hand weakly brushed against his knee.

“Mycroft,” he came awake instantly.

“Where am I?” the elder croaked.

“The Royal London Hospital.”

He filled him in on the surgery and injuries he received.

“And to think I should have been the one least likely to be hurt from my experience. The irony,” Mycroft smiled wryly. John and Lestrade, who had been slumbering uncomfortably, roused at the voices.

Anthea returned. Her normally placid face turned visibly relieved upon seeing her boss awake. She informed that the boy had been returned to his parents safely. He had not been injured save for a few scratches and rope burns and a traumatic experience which would be dealt with with a psychiatrist. The matter was under control. The Russian gang had been an old enemy of Mycroft’s, who wanted to target his weak link which was Sherlock as well. Mycroft took all of this in with a forbidding face.

“And their status?” he enquired.

“They have been dealt with.”

With those simple words, the lines in Mycroft’s face disappeared and he eased back against the pillow with the petrifying air around him gone. Whatever ‘dealt with’ meant, John didn’t think it was wise to know.

“I have also cleared your schedule for the next seven days, so you may take this time to recuperate,” his assistant notified. Gone was the trace of concern or panic in her face, her face back to the familiar controlled one.  

“Thank you, Anthea,” he murmured gratefully. The elusive woman nodded and left the room. Now three people looked at the government official.

“So,” Lestrade quipped first. “Your assistant seems efficient,”

“She’s good.” Mycroft agreed with a slight smile.

“Unlike some fools,” Sherlock snorted, clearly referring to the Scotland Yard, namely Anderson.

“Watch it Sherlock, or you aren’t getting another case till this Christmas."

He rolled his eyes. "Why is it always Christmas?”

 “It’s good to see you back with us, Mycroft,” John offered sincerely, and then he yawned.

“Come on, it’s time for you two to go home. I’ll stay for the night.” The detective said.

“You sure you’ll be alright?” The doctor asked, unable to help feeling concerned.

“Yes, I’ll be fine, John.” Sherlock reassured with a roll of his eyes.                                                           

“Alright,” Lestrade stifled a yawn. “I’ll see you hopefully not for another week. That's enough havoc for one day.”

As they made their way to the door, the doctor stopped and looked back at Mycroft with a strange expression.

“Is something the matter, John?” The politician raised a brow.

“Nothing…” John paused, seemed to think, then added, "Mycroft? You can  _move_.”

The room erupted into laughter. It was a much-appreciated and blessed sound after the difficult case, and Lestrade wiped tears from his eyes. It was a surprise indeed. His concept of the sedentary man had changed completely this night. The silver-haired detective inspector flashed one final comforting smile before opening the door and ushering them out.

"Oh, and John?" Mycroft called and the doctor turned to him. Mycroft smiled. "I did train them, in case you wanted to know."

John's jaw dropped open and the door shut before he could see the rest of the doctor's reaction. Silence descended once more as the two brothers were now alone.

“Hello, brother mine,” Mycroft greeted tiredly.

Normally Sherlock would retort something sarcastic at that term, but the image of Mycroft lifeless and cold and blue was still very much fresh in his mind.  He sat on the cushioned chair beside his brother’s bed.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Sherlock said angrily. “That was stupid.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Mycroft replied levelly. One would think Sherlock sounded unreasonable, but the older Holmes had a PhD in Sherlock-mentality and knew the anger was mostly guilt.

“You almost drowned.”

“I am aware.”

 “You were dead.”

“…I know.” A softer voice, this time.

 “I’m sorry.” Sherlock said. Unfamiliar emotions swirled within him, the terror that seized his heart when the body below him wouldn’t respond, the horrific sensation of breaking his brother's ribs with his own palms,  _his_  hands…even though it was to instil life… “You wouldn't breathe. I tried to do compressions on you but you wouldn't breathe."

"I'll take note to try harder next time." Mycroft said wryly. "Although I sincerely hope there will not be a next time."

Sherlock clenched his fists tightly. "It was my fault. I should have seen it coming. It wasbecause of me…”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Look at me.”

He looked. “You can’t predict everything.” Mycroft said gently. “Not even a gunshot. I should have known they were old enemies too of course, but I was too focused on getting the son to safety. It’s not your fault.”

The younger Holmes closed his eyes.

“I would do it too,” he said very quietly.

The older smiled. “I know.”

They understood.

A comfortable silence fell between them until Mycroft spoke.

“You were crying,” Humour lined his voice. 

Sherlock’s cheeks flamed. “Shut up,” he said but there was no sharpness to it. Trust his brother to make a deduction immediately after being clinically dead. Mycroft chuckled, though faintly because of his fractured ribs. Despite his best attempts, sleep started to beckon to him, urged by the surgical drugs and near-drowning experience. His eyelids fluttered.

“Sleep, My,” Sherlock leaned over. “I’ll be here.”

A little warm feeling flitted in Mycroft’s heart at the childhood name. It had been so long since he heard that.  

“Get yourself a blanket,” he muttered, for even in his current state his first thought was on Sherlock. The dark-haired detective did as he was told, going to the cabinet.

“Are you cold?”

“A little,” he admitted. His blanket, thick as it was, didn’t seem to stop the chill in his body. He wondered if it was because he spent minutes sunk under the freezing waters of a great river. Sherlock fetched two heavy blankets back, draping one over his current. He pulled the covers up to his brother’s chin before settling back on the chair with his own.

Warm and sated, his eyelids stared to droop. “Thank you, Sherl.” He managed to say before his eyes closed and he fell asleep. And it was thus he didn’t see the way the younger Holmes' expression shifted at that name, nor know the warmth that had flooded his heart.

Sherlock’s hand reached under the blanket, found the sleep-loosened, cool one, and wrapped his warm hand around it. And he didn’t let go for the rest of the night.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this please do leave a kudos or comment! I don't have much confidence in my writing so reviews (good or bad) are always loved and appreciated and encourages me to write more. :)


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